The Adventures of Jimmie Dale

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Jimmie Dale reached him, snatched the revolver from his hand, and bent
over him. It was the man whose name he did not know, but whose face he
had reason enough to know too well--it was the leader of the Crime Club.

The man, though evidently badly wounded, smiled defiantly in spite of
his pain.

"So you're the Gray Seal!" he flung out contemptuously. "A clever
enough safe-cracker--but only a lowbrow, like the rest of them. Another
illusion dispelled! Well, you've got the money--better run, hadn't you?"

Jimmie Dale made no answer. Satisfied that the man was too badly hurt to
move, he went and bent over the silent form in the centre of the room. A
moment's examination was enough. "Henry LaSalle" was dead.

He stood there looking down at the man. It was what he had come
for--though it was the Magpie, not himself, who had accomplished it!
The man was dead! The words began to run through his mind in a queer
reiteration. The man was dead--the man was dead! He checked himself
sharply. He must think now--think fast, and think RIGHT.

The Magpie knew that Larry the Bat was the Gray Seal--and as fast as the
Magpie could get there, the news would spread like wildfire through the
underworld. "Death to the Gray Seal! Death to the Gray Seal!" He could
hear that slogan ringing again in his ears, but as he had never heard it
before--with a snarl of triumph now as of wolves who at last had pulled
their quarry down. He had not a second to spare--and yet--that man
wounded there on the floor! What of him--guilty of murder, the brains of
this inhuman, monstrous organisation, the one to whom, more even than to
that dead man, the Tocsin owed the horror and the misery and the grief
and despair that had come into her life! What of him? What of the Crime
Club here? What of this nest of vipers? Were they to escape? Were they
to--

With a sudden, low exclamation, Jimmie Dale jumped for the table, and,
snatching up the telephone, rattled the hook violently.

"Give me"--his voice came in well-simulated gasps, each like a man
fighting for every word--"give me--police--headquarters! Quick! QUICK!
I've--been--shot!"

The wounded man on the floor raised himself on his elbow.

"What are you doing?" he demanded in a startled way. "Are you mad! Thank
your stars you were lucky enough to get out of this alive--and get out
now, while you have the chance!"

Jimmie Dale pressed his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the
telephone.

"I'll go," he said, with a cold smile, "when I've settled with you--for
the murder of Henry LaSalle."

"That man!" ejaculated the man scornfully, pointing to the form on the
floor. "So that's your game! Going to try and cover your tracks! Why,
you fool, I LIVE here! Do you think the police would imagine for an
instant that I killed him?"

"I said--HENRY LASALLE," said Jimmie Dale evenly.

The man came farther up on his elbow, a sudden look of fear in his face.

"What--what do you mean?" he cried hoarsely.

But Jimmie Dale was talking again into the telephone--gasping, choking
out his words as before:

"Police headquarters? I'm Henry LaSalle. Fifth Avenue. I--I've been
shot. Take down this statement. I'll--I'll be dead before you get
here--I'm not the real Henry LaSalle at all. We murdered Henry
LaSalle--in Australia, and murdered Peter LaSalle here. We--we tried
to kill the daughter, but she ran away. This house has been our
headquarters for the last five years. The man who shot me to-night is
the leader of the gang. We quarrelled over the division of a haul.
He's here on the floor now, wounded. Get them all, get them all, damn
them!--do you hear?--get them all! They're out of the house now, but
lay a trap for them. They always come in through the garage on the side
street. Oh, God, I'm done for! Break down the west walls of the rooms
upstairs--if--you--want proof of what--the gang's been doing. Hurry!
Hurry! I'm--I'm--done for--I--"

Jimmie Dale permitted the telephone to drop with a clash from his hand
to the table.

The face of the man on the floor was livid.

"Who are you? In God's name, who are you?" he cried out wildly.

"Does it matter?" inquired Jimmie Dale grimly. "Your game is up. You'll
go to the chair for the murder of 'Henry LaSalle'--if it is by proxy!
Those rooms upstairs alone are enough to damn you, to prove every word
of that dying 'confession'--but to-morrow, added to it, will come the
story of Marie LaSalle herself."

For a moment the man hung there swaying on his elbow, his face working
in ghastly fashion--and then suddenly, with a strange laugh, he carried
one hand swiftly to his mouth--and laughed again--and before Jimmie Dale
could reach him was lifeless on the floor.

A tiny vial rolled away upon the carpet. Jimmie Dale picked it up. A
drop or two of liquid still remained in it--colourless, clear, like
that liquid this same man had dropped into the rabbit's mouth the night
before, like the liquid in the glasses they had carried into that third
room, like the liquid that his man had said was from a formula of their
own, that was instantaneous in its action, that defied detection by
autopsy!

The set, stern features of Jimmie Dale relaxed. It was justice--but it
was also death. In a surge of emotion, the events of scarcely more
than twenty-four hours, began to crowd upon him--and then, ominously
dominant, above all else, that slogan of the underworld, "Death to the
Gray Seal!" came ringing once more in his ears. It brought him, with a
startled movement of his hand across his eyes, to a realisation of his
own desperate position. Yes, yes, he must go! The way was clear now for
the Tocsin--clear now for her!

He dropped the vial into his pocket, and, running to the safe, quickly
scraped the gray seal from the dial's knob; then he drew the packages of
money from his shirt and pockets and tossed them on the floor among the
litter of papers already there--she would get it back again when it had
served its purpose, it would be self-evident that it was the proceeds of
that day's sale of the estate's securities over which the "quarrel" had
occurred!

And now the window! He ran to it, closed it, and LOCKED it; then,
laying the revolver he had taken from the leader down beside the man,
he stepped across the room again and drew the body of "Henry LaSalle"
closer to the table--as though the man had fallen there when the
telephone had dropped from his hand.

It was done now! On the floor beside him lay each man's weapon--and both
of the revolvers had been discharged several times. Jimmie Dale paused
on the library threshold for a final survey of the room. It was done!
The way was clear--for her. And now if he could only save himself! There
was no chance for Larry the Bat! Could he save--JIMMIE DALE!

He crossed the hall, a queer, half-grim, half-wistful smile on his
lips, unlocked the front door, stepped out, locked it behind him--and
in another moment, doubling around the corner, was running along like a
hare along the side street.



CHAPTER XVI

"DEATH TO THE GRAY SEAL!"


On Jimmie Dale ran. Across on Fourth Avenue he swung on a car that took
him to Astor Place. Then striking east once more, making a detour to
avoid the Bowery, he ran on at top speed again. To reach the Sanctuary,
not before the Magpie should have spread the alarm, that was impossible,
but to reach it before the underworld should have had time to recover
its breath, as it were, before the underworld should have had time to
act--that was his only chance! The Magpie had, at the outside, a start
of fifteen minutes; but he, Jimmie Dale, had probably retrieved five
minutes of that in the time he had made in getting downtown. That left
the Magpie ten to the good. How long would it take the Magpie to bring
the underworld swarming like hornets around the Sanctuary?

On Larry the Bat ran. At the Sanctuary were the clothes, the belongings
of Jimmie Dale. Could he save Jimmie Dale! If he could get there,
change, and get out again, the way was clear for him--as clear as for
the Tocsin now. In a few hours the police would have every member of
the Crime Club in the trap; there would be no watch any more around
his house on Riverside Drive; and he would be free to return there
and resume his normal life as Jimmie Dale again if he could make
the Sanctuary in time! But let the Magpie get there first, let the
underworld tear the place to pieces in its fury as it would do, let them
discover that hiding place under the flooring, for instance, and the
Gray Seal would not be merely Larry the Bat, but Jimmie Dale as well,
and--a cry escaped him even as he ran--it meant ruin, the disgrace of
an honoured name, death, crimes without number at his door. Crimes! The
Gray Seal had never committed a crime! But the crimes attributed to the
Gray Seal he could not disprove, not one of them! He had meant them
to appear as crimes--and he had succeeded so well that the Gray Seal's
name, execrated, was a synonym for the most callous, dangerous, and
unscrupulous criminal of the age!

He was gasping for breath as finally, making for the side door, he
darted into the alleyway that flanked the Sanctuary. What story would
the Magpie tell? Not the truth, of course--that would let the Magpie in
for what had happened that night, for the Magpie must be well aware
that he had shot at least one of the two men in that room. But the
truth wasn't necessary; it was foreign, and had no bearing on the one
outstanding fact--the Gray Seal was Larry the Bat. At the present moment
the Magpie had a double incentive for "getting" the Gray Seal--the Gray
Seal was the only one who could prove murder against him that night
in the LaSalle mansion. And afterwards, when the police version of the
affair was made public, the Magpie, to save himself, would be careful
enough to do or say nothing to contradict "Henry LaSalle's" confession!

Larry the Bat slipped in through the door, halted there, listened; and
then began to mount the rickety stairs, with his silent tread. At the
top he paused again. Nothing--no sound! They were not here yet--so far
he was in time! He stepped to the Sanctuary door, unlocked it, passed
into the squalid, miserable room that had harboured him for so long as
Larry the Bat, locked the door behind him, crossed quickly to the window
to make sure that the shutters were closed--and then, for the first
time, as the gray light streaked in through the interstices, he was
conscious that it was already dawn. So much the more need for haste
then!

He whipped out his revolver and laid it at his hand on the dilapidated
table; then the flooring in the corner was up in an instant, and he
began to strip off the rags of Larry the Bat. Boots, mismated socks, the
torn, patched trousers, the greasy flannel shirt, the threadbare coat,
the nondescript slouch hat were thrown in a pile on the floor; and
with them, from their hiding-place, the grease paints and heterogeneous
collection of make-up accessories. This done, he began to slip on the
clothes of Jimmie Dale; and, when half dressed, turned to the table
again to remove the characteristic grime, stain, and paint of Larry the
Bat from face, hands, wrists, throat, and neck. This was a longer, more
arduous task. He reached for the cracked pitcher to pour more water into
the basin--and, snatching up his revolver instead, whirled to face the
door.

Some one was outside! He had caught the creak of a footstep upon the
stairs. In a flash he was across the room and crouched by the door. Yes,
the step was nearer now--at the head of the stairs--on the landing. His
revolver lifted, holding a steady bead on the door panel. And then there
came a low voice:

"Jimmie! Jimmie! Are you there? Quick, Jimmie! Are you there?"

The Tocsin! What was she doing here! Why had he not warned her up there
on the avenue, fool that he was, that of all places she was to keep away
from here!

She slipped into the room as he unlocked the door.

"They're coming, Jimmie!" she panted breathlessly. "There's not an
instant to lose! Listen! When the Magpie ran from the house, I ran with
him--but it"--she tried to smile--"it wasn't to obey you, to run away--I
had made up my mind I wouldn't do that--it was to find out from him what
had happened. He told me you were the Gray Seal. He did not suspect me.
He thinks you were no more than just Larry the Bat to me, as you were
to everybody else. He went straight to Chicago Ike's gambling rooms and
found the Skeeter's gang there--you know them, Red Mose, the Midget,
Harve Thoms, and the Skeeter--you remember your fight with them over
old Luddy's diamonds! Well, they have not forgotten, either! They are on
their way here, now! The news that you are the Gray Seal is travelling
like lightning all through the underworld--there will be a mob here on
the Skeeter's heels. So, Jimmie--quick! Run!"

Run! Half Larry the Bat, half Jimmie Dale--and run! In another five
minutes, perhaps--yes. But there probably would not be five minutes--and
she--if she were found here!

"Yes," he said quietly. "I'll get away in a moment. You go at once.
I'll"--he was smiling at her reassuringly--"I'll meet you at--"

She looked at him then for an instant--interrupting him quickly, as she
shook her head.

"I didn't notice, Jimmie. You cannot go like that--can you? It would
be even worse than being caught as Larry the Bat. Hurry then--I am not
going without you."

"No!" he said. "Go now! Go at once, Marie--while you can. You have
risked your life as it is to come here and tell me this. For God's sake,
go now!"

The great, brown eyes were smiling bravely through a sudden mist. She
shook her head again.

"Not without you, Jimmie."

It brought a fierce, wild throb of joy upon him--and then a cold,
sickening fear.

"Listen!" he cried out desperately. "You must go now! You cannot take
any chances now, Marie. Everything is right for you. That man who posed
as your uncle is dead--the leader of the Crime Club is dead. Don't you
understand what that means! You have only to be Marie LaSalle again and
claim your own. I cannot tell you all now--there's no time. That house
was the Crime Club itself. The police will get them all. Don't you see!
Don't you see! Everything is clear for you now--and now go! Go--you must
go!"

She was staring at him, a strange wonder in her face.

"Clear! All clear--for me! I--I can go back to--to my own life again!"
It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of unbelievable
joy to herself.

"YES!" he cried out again. "Yes! But go--go, Marie!"

But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from the
door and put it in the pocket of her dress.

"We will go together, Jimmie--or not at all," she said simply. "We are
wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!"

He hesitated miserably. What could he do--if she WOULD not go! And it
was true--the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile argument,
to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why not! Five
minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do better than that!

Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from
face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time. She
was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom
he loved, she who, all through the years that had gone, had been so
strangely elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life, SHE was
standing there now, here with him--in peril with every second that
passed!

He had only to slip on his coat and vest now--and make a bundle of
Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them away
to destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes--and straightened
suddenly--and jumped toward the door again.

"They are coming, Jimmie!" she called, in a low voice. But he had
already heard them--the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread of
many feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall at the
side of the door.

"Stand there!" he said, under his breath. "Out of the line of fire!
Don't move!"

There was a rush against the door--and then a voice growled:

"Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by bustin' it!
Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up."

It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst apaches
in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors,
he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's life any time for
twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of
the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to forget--the
Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to come!

Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop that. It
would not take them long to find out that he WAS there once the door
was opened! Better know it with the door SHUT! Jimmie Dale lifted his
revolver coolly and fired through the panel.

A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the
others, the Magpie's scream:

"We got him! We got him! He's dere now!"

And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose--there was a volley of
shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a machine
gun, so fast they came--and then another rush against the door.

Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired
steadily--again and again.

Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths--and they fell back from the
door.

And now from above, from overhead, came tumult--windows thrown up, the
stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low, sullen roar.
The underworld was gathering fast!

Once more the rush upon the door--and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted smile
upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once more they
fell back--and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an
infuriated beast:

"He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de
bulls down here in a minute--an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be
too damned soft wid him--dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase
upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it--an' beat it quick. We'll
BURN de skunk out--dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand alongside an'
watch, if dey likes--but he's our meat."

Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically he
refilled the magazine of his automatic--and lay there, waiting. The roar
from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting out there, as
though an inadequate number of police were trying to disperse a mob--and
not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call in, there would probably
be a battle--for the Gray Seal! Sublime irony! It was death at the hands
of either one!

Children whimpered on the stairs outside, men swore, women cried, feet
shuffled hurriedly by as the tenement emptied. Occasionally, a pertinent
invitation to him to remain where he was, there was a vicious rip
through the panel, and the drumming whir of a bullet flying through the
room. And then a curious, ominous crackling sound--and then the smell of
smoke.

Jimmie Dale stood up, his face drawn and haggard. The tenement would go
like matchwood, burn like a bonfire, with any kind of a start--and there
was no doubt about the start! The Skeeter, the Magpie, and the rest
would have seen that it had headway enough to serve their purpose before
either firemen or police could thwart them. He, Jimmie Dale, could
take his choice: walk out into a bullet, or stay there and--he smiled
miserably as his eyes fell upon the pile of Larry the Bat's clothing on
the floor. There was no longer need to worry about ITS destruction--the
fire would take care of that only too well! And then a low, bitter
cry came to his lips, and he clenched his hands. If it were only
himself--only himself! He crossed to the Tocsin and caught her in his
arms.

"Oh, my God--Marie!" he faltered.

The cape and hood had fallen from her, and with the hood had fallen the
gray-streaked hair of Silver Mag--and now as she smiled at him it was
from a face that was very beautiful and very brave and very full of
tenderness.

And he held her there--and neither spoke.

It seeped in under the threshold of the door, it came from everywhere,
filling the room--the black, strangling smoke. Outside in the hall all
was silence now--save for that crackle of flame that grew in volume,
that came now in quick, sharp reports, like revolver shots. From out in
the street swelled a cry: "Death to the Gray Seal!" Then the clang of
bells, the roar and rattle of fire apparatus, strident voices bellowing
orders, and the crowd again, blood hungry: "Death to the Gray Seal!"

There was a chance, just one--if the fire had no headway along the upper
end of the landing--and if they had not thought to set a watch for
him ABOVE! They--the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang--must have been
driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame.

"Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie," he said quietly.
"Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the LEFT to
the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this--we'll make
the roof if we can. Now--are you ready?"

It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted
her face to his, and held his face between her two hands--and then:

"I am ready, Jimmie."

He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward--and
instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of
the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the
flames leaping from the stair well.

And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the
stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another--and fell
again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had
staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew
weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating
fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first
landing above. There was one more--one more! If he could only rest here
for a moment! Yes, that was it--rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She
stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet--and he was helping her on
again, and up the next flight of stairs.

And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria--for they were
climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing,
and the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the
pure, fresh air--and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from
the street was in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some
canyon far below. Jimmie Dale tried to speak, and found his lips were
cracked and dry. He wet them with his tongue.

"Don't stand up--we'd be seen--CRAWL," he mumbled hoarsely.

It took a long time--over one roof, and then another, and yet
another--and then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants
were either craning from the front windows, or were on the street below.
It was, perhaps, half an hour--and then they, too, were standing in the
street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in wild excitement.

Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing
furiously--and now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It brought
a yell from the crowd:

"Death to the Gray Seal!"

She pulled at his arm.

"Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!" she whispered frantically.

A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips.

"We're safe now--for always," he whispered back. "Look!"

The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant
hesitant in mid-air--and fell with a mighty crash.

The Gray Seal was dead!